


The Importance of Socks in the Life of a Teenage Male

by gala_apples



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Closeted Character, Dubious Consent, Internalized Homophobia, Light Bondage, M/M, Polyamory Negotiations, Public Sex, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-17
Updated: 2011-12-17
Packaged: 2017-10-27 11:39:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/295439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gala_apples/pseuds/gala_apples
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In an AU seventh year, Neville notices some things about Seamus and Dean and feels the need to act on his ideas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Importance of Socks in the Life of a Teenage Male

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2010 Neville Big Bang

1   
It's funny to think laundry starts the whole thing, but it's true.

Gran isn't the sort to have house-elves. She says it's because Neville needs to learn to take care of himself, only weak men depend on servant creatures. Neville knows it's because Mum and Dad are in St. Mungo's. Round-the-clock care isn't cheap, even with his aunts and uncles chipping in. They don't have enough money to be one of the rich families.

Hogwarts on the other hand, has dozens. If that wasn't made obvious the first time Neville's drool stained pillow was exchanged for a clean once a week into his first year, it became damn clear when Hermione pitched a fit about it. Neville didn't particularly agree that he was subjugating an entire race, but neither did he want to argue with her about it. So, as was his usual strategy for confrontation, he quickly agreed and then stayed out of the way as much as possible. Luckily, with it being their final year, Hermione's far too worried about getting 200 percent on each N.E.W.T to care about the wellbeing of others. She'll snap at Ron for spilling pumpkin juice on the floor and leaving it for the elves, but she’ll snap far more often if he moves her piles of notes, she says that he’s messing up her organisation.

It's not that he doesn't believe they should have rights. Hell, he believes his plants should have rights, and no one else in the school thinks that. It's just that he's quite sure the elves don't want to be liberated, and they do too many important things at Hogwarts to piss them off. They make sure the night plants are watered, they cook, and they do things like scrub the cauldrons when some poor sap in detention isn't forced into it. And most importantly, they clean.

The rules for dorm cleanliness are simple. The house-elves make sure the beds are made each day, sheets are washed, pillows are fluffed and duvets are shaken so the feathers inside redistribute evenly. They dust and sweep, and when necessary clean up any spills. What the elves don't do is touch personal affects. Nothing on nightstands, tables, or the floor is so much as breathed on, which includes clothing. If you want something washed, it goes in the massive bin near the door, and you can find it folded on your bed after classes.

It's an easy concept, but most teenage boys avoid even the slightest effort when it comes to cleaning, and the seventh year Gryffindors are no different. Neville often only ends up gathering massive armfuls of clothes to toss into the bin when he's got nothing left in his trunk.

The morning it all starts, Neville is the last one up. The rest all have Potions, but Neville's not taking it, and he'd rather sleep an extra hour than get up for breakfast. So what if skipping the meal makes him hungry enough that he eats three platefuls at lunch? That one time Parvati called him a pig, Seamus gave her the two finger salute. A perfectly manly way of defending Neville's honour, the kind of thing you know better than to thank someone for, but feel entirely better because of.

He wakes to a blessedly silent room – it's appalling how _awake_ Harry and Ron can be in the morning – and takes his time easing the transition between warm bed and cold air. He stumbles to the loo for a piss and it's only after he's done that he opens his eyes. Neville brushes his teeth manually, because the tooth brushing spell only comes in mint, and he can steal Dean's berry toothpaste, which is much better. He attempts to flatten his hair, which, while not as bad as Harry's, isn't exactly the most stylish of all the Gryffindors.

With all of that done, he goes back to bed. Casting a tempus charm shows it's time to get dressed and leave for Charms. As a child, Gran always enforced punishments for tardiness to the dinner table and it's ingrained into his psyche to never be late. A quick rifle through his trunk shows he's got no socks left, and the ones he can find scattered about the two feet high pile of clothing on the floor are rock hard with dried sweat.

There's only one solution, and that's stealing from his mates. He crosses to Seamus' trunk first, as the Irishman is the most likely to have his laundry washed. It's only when Neville's got a pair of socks in hand that he remembers how tiny Seamus is. Since he’s 5'5 and rail thin, Seamus’ socks might fit on Neville's ear, but they certainly won't fit his feet. Trying to enlarge them would only make the cloth thinner and sprout holes.

He's about to toss them back in the metal container when he sees something odd. There's a pair of boxers in Seamus' trunk. It's not like it's a bad thing to wear, it's just Seamus doesn't wear boxers. None of them do, except Dean. Even if it was possible for a house-elf to fail and put Dean's pants on the wrong bed, Seamus should have known immediately they weren't his. So why the hell are they in his trunk?

Whatever the reason, Neville still needs to finish dressing and get to class. And logically, Harry's socks aren't going to fit either. It's Dean or Ron, and Ron's pile of dirty laundry is just as large as Neville's, if not worse.

It doesn't surprise him that the entire top layer of the trunk is all different sizes of sketchbooks. Dean's not much for painting, but everyone knows he'd rather draw than speak. Under that though, there's clothing. Neville twitches his hand under the impeding book and tugs the balled fabric out. As he does said book slants sideways and a few loose pages, torn from the coils slide halfway out. Neville picks up the book and flips open the cover so he can tidy up the pile. It's the only evidence he's taking the socks. There's no need for Dean to know he's stolen clothing when it'll come back to him in a matter of days.

The top sketch is an eye opener. It's of Seamus (which would be fine, Neville expects Dean draws the rest of the seventh years quite a lot) the problem is, its Seamus nude. Which wasn’t exactly a problem, per say. Neville's never looked down on Uncle Bert and for that matter isn't entirely averse to trying it out himself. It's just, why would they never have said anything? Are they under the impression that he and Harry and Ron will be shocked and horrified? The idea's almost offensive.

With the idea of confrontation swirling in the back of his head, Neville shoves his feet into the socks and grabs his rucksack. Charms first, then he can gather his nerve enough to shout at Seamus and Dean.

 

2   
The more Neville thinks about the huge secret Seamus and Dean are hiding, the more irritated he gets. It's not the 1800s, they're Gryffindors not Slytherins, and it's not like any of them give a flying shit about progeny. He doesn't want them to tell Rita Skeeter, or even the whole of Hogwarts. He just wants to know the truth about his mates, and to make sure they know it's nothing to be ashamed of.

If he's looking for truth, he's got to go to Dean. Seamus has many positive qualities, but he lies like he curses: frequently and colourfully. Hell, there are even times when those are positive qualities! Seamus' lying about not helping Neville at potions before he was finally able to drop the course was crucial to avoiding detention. It's just not good when the blond will create elaborate reasons he's got Dean's pants rather than be honest.

Saturday afternoon, Neville decides he's had enough. It's absolutely infuriating to see Seamus and Dean sit in armchairs opposite each other, when there's a free couch for them to snuggle upon. He pretends to be reading Virulent Vines _How to Sicken and Slaughter_ , but he's really watching them and their self-oppression. They chat and Neville waits for an opportunity to butt in. Finally Seamus starts whining that he's starving to death, that in mere moments he will wither and turn to dust, and then he'll explode and his bloody guts will be scattered all over the common room as his stomach acid starts to eat away his insides. Dean's rolling his eyes so hard Gran would probably slap him, but he tells Seamus he'll get some sandwiches.

Neville stands too. He tosses an excuse into the air, though no one is listening. Harry, Ron, and Hermione are in the library, and Seamus is moaning as Dean walks towards the portrait hole, and there's nobody else who ever really listens to him. He follows Dean towards the kitchen, intent on questioning him.

When Dean hears the footsteps he slows his pace to keep in time with Neville. "His stomach wore off on you, did it?"

Neville thinks might as well be forward about it. "Can't say it did. I have to know, why are you two hiding?"

"What's that?"

"You and Seamus. Why are you hiding your relationship? Because honestly mate, I don't think anyone cares if you've got a boyfriend."

"Where the hell did you get that from? We're not dating. We're just friends."

Neville should have expected some resistance, but it's still irritating. "There's no sense in lying, really. I'm not just guessing, I _know_."

"Neville, honestly, there's nothing to know. We're not together." Dean's face is so open, his voice so earnest that Neville could almost believe him. Except there's proof, Seamus has his pants, Dean has nude portraits. It's not quite as concrete as watching them shag, but it would pass in the Wizengamot.

"Dean. You're drawing nude pictures of him. Erect, naked pictures. I didn't mean to find them, I was just looking for socks, but I did and—"

"So I like cock. That doesn't mean I'm shagging Seamus." Of all the answers, Neville wasn't expecting that. More denial, fine, or telling the truth. But why a strange half-lie? The answer is logical enough, if unneeded. It's to protect Seamus, of course.

"You are. He's got your stuff too!"

"He does not." And it's not the calm determined bluff that people like Fred and George can pull off so well that Neville can't manage. It's genuine. Dean thinks Neville is lying, which is ridiculous, because everyone knows Neville can't lie worth crap.

"He does. I can show you, it's in his trunk, he's got—"

"I'm not invading his privacy like that." His tone is firm and resolute, which is so stupid, because if Dean thinks he's alone, Neville practically owes it to him to show him he's not. Alone is horrible, and Neville wouldn't wish it on anyone.

"Dean, listen to me. I'm sure Seamus would shag you."

"I'm not despoiling him." For Merlin's sake. _Despoiling_. Like it's the 18th century, or some faffing poetry. Neville's got a headache just thinking about how stupid this is. Dean obviously misinterprets the look, because the next thing he says is "It's not like I'm never going to get laid. I just don't need to mess around with him. Once I graduate, I can find somebody."

It somehow makes it even worse that Dean's never slept with anyone. Neville doesn't have a lot of notches in his bedpost, but at least he's had Luna and Hannah. In a mad fit of sympathy and bravery combined, Neville surges forward and kisses the black teen.

Dean has what must be the sanest reaction to random snogging Neville's ever seen. He pulls away, looks Neville in the eye for a second before shrugging, and moves back in to complete the kiss.

It turns out boys taste different. Or at least Dean tastes different than Luna and Hannah, who were both an odd sugary, fruity taste, like orange and pear and marshmallow. The tongue in Dean's mouth, Neville’s, tastes butterscotch sweets. It's rather nice.

For some reason, even though it's the weekend, Dean is wearing his school uniform. Neville, comfortable in old loose jeans and a shirt depicting some rock band Hannah likes to listen to, doesn't understand why a crisp white shirt with a hundred buttons and tight creased trousers would ever make the list. The only possible reason is pride, because damn, Dean looks good. He reaches out and begins undoing the long string of buttons. It's difficult, they're tiny and Neville's hands are sweaty. By the time all the fasteners are actually open, he's aching with need. When it comes to getting off, Neville's not good with delayed gratification.

His shirt is no less of a chore to remove, the cuffs and collar are tight and as he's pulling it off, it gets stuck on his head. He swears emphatically, then starts laughing, fabric heating against his mouth. Dean's hands on his zipper finally give him the extra enthusiasm he needs, Neville pulls hard, not caring if the fabric rips a bit.

There have been many times Neville thinks he couldn't be happier that magic exists. It's odd, his family is pureblood in all corners, and yet he keeps finding new things that change his life. Herbology, Remembralls, Wheezes' new Ridiculously Riotous Alarm Clocks. And now there are lubrication spells. Neville's never used one before, he's got foreskin of course, and Luna and Hannah made their own. It makes sense though that Dean would know one.

Dean grabs Neville's hand and pulls his fingers to his arse. His digits stiffen as he tries to read Dean. They're teenage blokes, this should be all either of them wants, but it's Dean's first and they are going fast. From conversation to anal sex in less than ten minutes, he could understand Dean being nervous, reluctant. Hell, Neville hardly knows how he feels. Under the extreme arousal there's a distinct scream of _what the hell am I doing?_ They're not even in a bed, just a hallway on the way to the kitchens. But Dean's face is tranquil, and as he leans forward for another kiss, Neville slowly pushes two fingers inside him.

The angle is awkward, and he's never done this before, but Dean doesn't seem to find his technique bad. The teen is panting short breaths against his lips. Neville wonders for a moment what it feels like, and then firmly decides he's not ready for that sort of thing yet and just continues pressing light kisses against Dean's open lips.

It's pure intuition that makes Neville think he's ready. He pulls his fingers out, and Dean turns and raises his arms against the wall. He rests his forehead on his arms so the rough stone doesn't bite into him. Neville uses the spare lubricant on his fingers to slick his cock a bit. It's past the moment of no return though, regardless of how good or not an idea this is, so Neville steps closer and lines himself up with Dean. He groans as he enters Dean, the same wanton moan he had with Luna and Hannah. It's different, but no better, no worse. Worse doesn't really factor in at all.

It feels amazing. Fucking is one of those things Neville tells himself is overrated when he's not doing it, like flying, or smoking some of his plants, but once he's doing it, he recognises that for the lie it is. There is nothing better than the rush of blood, the heat of someone against him. Dean is sweating, his cotton shirt turning translucent and sticking to the valley of his lower back. It only takes a few minutes of thrusting before Neville loses it, drops his head on Dean's wet shoulder and shoots deep inside him. It's embarrassing to come so soon, but just like the girls, Dean says nothing. Neville reckons he's lucky he only shags nice people.

When he comes down enough from his afterglow to realise Dean is still hard, he gets a rough grip and jerks hard. Making Dean come is only fair, after all. The liquid on his hand looks vaguely enticing, but he thinks he's probably not ready for that either, so he doesn't taste it, just cleans his hands.

"What kind of sandwich do you think he wants?"

Neville shrugs and zips up his jeans. Dean's graceful artist hands take only second to do up all the buttons that gave Neville so much trouble, and they continue on their way to the kitchens. If this is going to be one of those things that no one talks about, Neville's okay with that. He's succeeded in his goal of making sure Dean's not ashamed, there's no need to make public announcements as long as there's internal happiness. Now he only has to make sure Seamus knows the same.

3   
Neville waits until Sunday evening to catch Seamus. Since the sandwich delivery, Dean has been eyeing Neville every time he looks at the blond. It's a protective look, like he thinks Neville's going to stick him in a sack, kidnap him, and sell him to some old man on Knockturn Alley to get deflowered. The stupidity of it doesn't prevent Neville from shying away, a well placed fist could easily break his nose.

But come eight, Harry's suggesting a pick up game of Quidditch, just a lark. Hermione glares him, no doubt she’s displeased he's ignoring the mountain of revisions she's always sticking on their table in hopes that it won't be just her looking. Though Neville will never be talented enough for a Quidditch team, flying is exhilarating. So he says yes, as do half the Gryffindors. It's that kind of night, warm and starry skied, and even people who haven't picked up a broom since being taught by Madame Hooch seem interested.

Except Dean, who doesn't even look up from the couch at all, seemingly uninterested, even as Seamus jostles him to stand. Apparently, even though Dean was a Chaser for half of sixth year, sport isn't as interesting as the few lines he's scribbled onto his paper, deep in thought. It's not entirely surprising, there's nothing that Dean finds more captivating than a crisp, white piece of paper.

The other four seventh years clomp up to the dorm and grab brooms. None of them have as good as Harry's Firebolt, but it would be practically criminal to be a seventeen year old male and not own a broom. Rather like muggle teens and their tellies, if Hannah is to be believed. They exit at the same time, but halfway down the hall Harry and Ron reconsider and go back for their team gear. It's a bit of a prat move considering that no one else will be wearing leather and it seems boastful of them, but it does leave Neville alone with Seamus. Neville thinks he might as well capitalise on the situation.

"So, when did you decide that you wanted to shag Dean?" he asks casually.

"Wh-what the fuck? What _the hell_ are you talking about?"

"You. Wanting to shag Dean. Don't worry he wants to shag you too." Though apparently he wasn't picky. Thoughts of sinking deep inside the tall teen cascade through Neville's head.

"I...You... You're talking out your arse, Longbottom."

"I'm not though. I know you have a pair of Dean's pants in your trunk. The only reason I can think of is to use them for wanking." Though as far as Neville could tell in his short-lived investigation, they were clean, so it's not like Seamus was sniffing them. As far as sexual artefacts go, he can think of a few better ones.

"I don't know why the fucking hell you were in my trunk, but it's not my fault the house-elves buggered up the laundry!" Neville wants to roll his eyes at the poor lie. House-elves, doing their chores improperly? Though at least it's a simple one to stick to, the more elaborate, the more likely he'll forget important plotholes.

"Would you feel better to know you're not the only one? He does want you. He's drawn nude pictures of you."

"Fuck off, he has not."

It's the same as Dean, utter conviction in the other's innocence, but with one crucial difference. Dean is at least able to think rationally. The longer they have this conversation the angrier Seamus will get at him. And the last thing Neville wants is to be hexed. So he pushes it further, faster than he did with Dean the day before.

"Just tell him you want to suck his cock. You'll be pleasantly surprised."

"I'm not like that, Longbottom!"

Neville doesn't believe it for a second. _Gryffindor bravery_ he reminds himself, and grabs Seamus' belt. It's a thick piece of leather, at least an inch and a half thick, with an extremely tacky four leaf clover buckle. Neville holds him steady with his left hand as his right goes for the goods. He strokes Seamus' cock outside his jeans, praying that he's right in his confidence. It doesn't take long for Seamus get hard, for his jeans to fill.

"You have to stop that."

Neville doesn't stop. He's proving a point. And besides, Seamus is sexy, as far as blokes go. It was an entirely different sort of sexy than Dean, but, nonetheless, sexy. If his mad action spurs Seamus on to snogging him, Neville wouldn’t be upset.

"You have to stop touching me!" Seamus' voice is reed high and wavering, but his cock his hard, his hips unconsciously thrusting towards Neville. When the mandrakes screech at him, he ignores them and does what's best for them, and so he'll do the same with Seamus.

Except, as it turns out, mandrakes with their knock-you-out-voices are less crafty than Seamus Finnegan, who shouts a spell Neville's never heard of. It makes Neville's belt whip out of his belt loops and curl around his wrists. It doesn't hurt as his belt isn't leather like Seamus', just thin, ratty canvas.

"Christ," Seamus groans, glancing down at his clothed erection before staring at a spot directly over Neville's left ear. It's the last thing he says before sinking to his knees and roughly jerking Neville's now loose jeans down.

Fucking hell, Seamus' lips on his cock, and Neville isn't even going to brag about being right, not even in his own head, because the only thing he can think about is how it feels like Seamus' tongue is fucking _dancing_ on his skin. Eyes closed against the world, he drops his bound hands onto Seamus' head. It's awkward, but he can almost thread his fingers through what he always knew was shaggy blond, but never knew was so soft.

Then Seamus' mouth is off him, and his dick flinches against the cold air. "I told you not to fucking touch me!"

For the second time in as many minutes Neville almost rolls his eyes. The only thing that stops him is that Seamus' voice sounds almost pained, like he's doing this against his will. Seamus wants this, but doesn't want to want it, and Neville won't make it harder by mocking him. He moves his arms so his tied wrists are resting on his head. Sure he looks like an idiot, but it's not like anyone is watching.

The moment Neville comes, Seamus is off him. Neville opens his eyes, legs wobbly, in time to see Seamus pointing a wand at him. For a second he thinks he'll hear a sharp _obliviate_ , but instead his belt falls to the floor. Seamus turns and sprints away, and Neville's numb arms drop to his side.

4   
Monday morning is horrendously awkward. It's Charms, and this is how it's supposed to be. Harry and Ron sit at the first table, scrawling notes to each other in the margins of their textbooks and occasionally laughing aloud. Neville and Hermione sit at the second table, Hermione kicking the backs of her friends’ chairs whenever she thinks they're not paying attention, Neville divided between listening to whispered jokes ahead of him and the somewhat louder jokes behind him. Seamus and Dean are always louder, because Ron and Harry don't have the time for detention, and Seamus and Dean are just normal teens with all the time in the world.

That's the way Charms is supposed to be, that's the way it has been for years. But today everything is all fucked up. It's a cascade of subtle negativity that starts with Seamus. The blond is supposed to be a fount of dirty jokes and rude comments and creative ideas for how to use whatever spell they're learning. Instead he's frowning and silent, left hand fiddling with the small golden chain around his neck. Neville can't remember the last time he saw Seamus actually wearing his cross necklace, aside from the first few months of first year, when everyone had their own nervous tics.

Because Seamus isn't talking to Dean, everyone else is thrown off. Dean tries to play off his confusion by drawing over the crackly yellow parchment his notes are neatly printed on, but everyone knows Dean only draws on muggle paper, so the action shows more than it hides.

Ron and Harry keep glancing back over their shoulders, waiting for a curse or an overly descriptive phrase. Neither are copying Flitwick's words, Neville can see their blank pages from where he's sitting. And that obviously bothers Hermione, who's scowling and kicking their seats like a donkey.

Even the Ravenclaws are noticing the oddness in the air. Rather like Hermione, they're all used to having to frown at the Gryffindor loud-mouths the entire lesson. They listen intently to the professor, but between sentences keep glancing up and, well, the only word Neville has for it is observing.

By the time class is over, the tension in the room is palpable. The Gryffindors practically explode from the room, all going their own ways like tiny pieces of shrapnel, heading for ugly collision with the next thing they landed on. Neville's sure Harry and Ron and Hermione will be sniping at each other for the rest of the day. Seamus is going to beat the crap out of the next person that pisses him off; silence where Seamus is concerned is never a good thing. But Neville's got his own body to worry about, considering Dean is glaring at him like murder is his only option.

"What did you do?" he hisses as they make their way to the Great Hall for lunch. Neville wants to prolong this conversation for as long as possible; if they have it inside the Great Hall a professor will stop Dean from killing him. But as Neville pauses, Dean asks again, sounding even more agitated.

"I didn't do anything! It was what he did!"

Dean's raised eyebrows prove he doesn't believe him, but Neville trucks onward. "I've got proof he's gay now, you should go after him."

"I never said he wasn't gay. He's a clear closet case if there ever was one. But he doesn't want me. And I'm not going to force myself on him, Neville. No matter how many times we have this conversation it's not going to happen. So would you stop, before I get bothered?"

It's not in Neville's nature to be a provoker, that sort of thing is better left to the Ron-Harry-Hermiones of the world. But this time he knows he's right, and he won't have two of his mates suffering because both are too bloody stupid to talk to each other. "But he does. He wants you so badly he can't even think about what he wants without getting furious and lashing out."

"I am not talking about this any more." Dean grits between clamped teeth and stalks off at double his normal pace.

An hour later it's a different story. As predicted, Hermione and Ron and Harry had spent lunch bickering about studying and marks and potentially gratifying futures slipping away one by one with every ignored lecture. But that hadn't taken up much of Neville's attention, most of it focused on _where the hell is Seamus?_ and _I bet Dean will blame me_.

"What, exactly, did you do to him?"

"I wish you'd stop saying that. He was the one that blew me!" Neville's not particularly a prude, but the phrase makes him blush.

"And his head is all fucked up from it, and he didn't show up for the one meal he's guaranteed to have, even if he has to sneak out from the Hospital wing to do it. Shit, Neville, what if he's?"

Dean looks scared, and the feeling is horribly contagious. Neville – and the rest of the Gryffindors, really – knew that Seamus covered up his repression in some areas by being ridiculously exuberant in others. One doesn't talk to Seamus about religion, or violence, and while sex was a perfectly fine conversation, apparently sexuality isn't. But Neville never thought that a poor conversation starter could push Seamus into dark acts.

For lack of a better plan, they make their way to the dorm. As they hurry up the stairs, Neville braces himself for a body on the bed, tries to prepare himself for the lifetime of guilt he'll be burdened with. The empty room is such a relief that he lets out a huge sigh. Dean's not nearly as appeased. He walks over to Seamus' bed and it's only when he kneels that Neville notices Seamus' trunk is open, belongings strewn about.

"He's run away. The idiot has actually run away."

Neville, who has no idea what to say, casts his eyes around the room. They land on the first out of place thing; Dean's trunk is open too. "I think he took something of yours?"

Dean takes the few steps to his bed and digs through, clearly mentally cataloguing all his items. It's hard to read his expression when he finally says "That sentimental fucker took my football cleats."

"What do we do now?" Neville's never known a runaway before. Are they supposed to get Aurors? Or do they just contact Seamus' family in Ireland and let them deal with it?

"We find him, of course."

 

5   
"You're sure you know where we're going?" Neville asks. He's never been out of his own neighbourhood, except for Hogwarts, never mind Ireland.

"Yes. His family are re-planters. Ireland's got a lack of trees, but their government pays people who plant them." The idea of a countryside being so lacking disturbs Neville, but he doesn't interrupt. "He's halfblood, you know. But it works really well. His mum's like you, O's in Herbology since first year. She even made a living tent when we went to the World Cup. So his dad plants them, and his mum makes them grow faster than muggle trees. He'll be there. It's the only place he'd go."

Neville wishes he was as confident as Dean, even more so wishes he couldn't see through Dean's plastered on confidence into the terror that he'll never get him back. This mission is proof that Neville will never be Harry Potter; his attempts to make better worlds only result in pain for all involved.

Still, he is better at explaining himself. Had the trio been on this mission, they would have gone off half cocked, stealing into the night under Harry's Invisibility Cloak, riding to Ireland on the back of a flying unicorn, and ended up fighting Death Eaters. All Neville had done was talk calmly to Professor McGonagall about Seamus having a bit of a breakdown, and it being best that his mates search him out rather than a horde of Aurors.

"And even if it wasn't, the one stop Portkey his mum made him before fifth year was gone. You know, she made it because she thought Harry was a nutter, but Seamus didn't care. He came back. He wanted to figure it out for himself. It took him awhile, but he did. He's not as dumb as people think."

Neville's never thought of Seamus as dumb, but this isn't really a lecture aimed at him. Dean's rambling because he's scared, and Neville just listens.

They don't have their own Portkey because Dean doesn't actually know where the Finnegans’ forest is, just what it looks like. Neville was surprised that Professor McGonagall didn't know, but apparently the forest is nowhere near Seamus' home, of which she does have the address. If they Flooed directly to Seamus' home, Mr or Mrs Finnegan could tell them, but neither Neville nor Dean wants to get them involved in this. After all, the fear of sexuality had to have come from somewhere.

In the end, they have to trust Dean's memories. They walk down the long path towards Hogsmeade, Dean talking the whole time, words like an odd stream of consciousness. Neville doesn't respond to any of it, only wishes he had a better coping mechanism than thinking about all the possibilities head on. It's what Gran taught him, but it doesn't help much when his stomach is churning and his mind is racing about never finding Seamus.

Once they get to the tiny village, Dean wraps his arms around Neville's thick frame. Neville closes his eyes and thinks hard about all his body parts and how they connect to each other. Sure it's not a proven anti-splinching technique, but it's a popular superstition, and it gives him something to do. He feels the tugging that is Apparation, and once he can feel hard ground under his feet he opens his eyes.

They're in a forest, Dean did that much. Neville recognises the crisp smell that is magical growth. He wouldn't be surprised if some of these trees were saplings just a year ago. He doesn't begrudge the trees their growth. They seem content in their twisted branch splendour. He only hopes they can survive once weaned from their magical fertiliser and onto sun, soil and rain. He's seen more than one plant wither and die without the potion it's become addicted to.

"He'll be here, somewhere. Check every treetop. He'll be up there – he's like a half-man, half-monkey. He once showed me how he could walk a mile without touching the ground." Neville, who can't imagine ever making it up into a tree, never mind jumping from branch to branch, looks up. The sun filters through the canopy, making the sky golden white and glowing green. He squints and tries to see any dark figures, but the trees are densely packed, roots merging with each other; a side effect of fast growth is trees that melt and tangle together and there are many levels of branches.

"You think he stayed in a tree overnight?"

"Neville, about half the trees have different things tucked in more sheltered branches. Books, firewhiskey, porn mags, bottles of water, whatever you might want, he's got. He could live for a year in those damn trees."

Neville would find that fascinating, not to mention close to a dream come true, if it wasn't for the lack of a good toilet. Except in this case, Seamus' prowess at living outdoors will only make it more difficult to find him. And McGonagall's only gave them Tuesday off. If they don't find him today, they have to report back to her and she'll bring in professional trackers. For a moment Neville wishes Seamus would slip and fall out of a tree. Healing a broken arm might be far easier than finding a healthy, hidden Seamus.

Suddenly, like a guardian angel is listening to his words – one with more safety consciousness – in the distance Neville hears the thud of something heavy falling, and a "Shit". Neville exchanges a quick glance with Dean, and they both take off in that direction, Neville's rucksack bouncing against his back.

At the foot of the tree is a massive book. A closer look shows it's a Charms book full of renovating spells. That Seamus has thought as far ahead as building his own house in the canopy shows Neville how serious this is, and how much he fucked up by pressing things. But there's still a chance to save everything.

"Seamus fucking Finnegan! Get down here or we're coming up!" Dean must be bluffing, Neville couldn't climb a tree if his life depended on it, and if they try to go up Seamus will just start flitting from tree to tree. He might even Apparate somewhere else, somewhere that Dean might not be able to find him.

But Seamus doesn't think Dean is bluffing. Either Seamus knows Dean better than Neville does (likely), or he wants to solve this issue (less likely) because as soon as Dean threatens him, he starts the climb down. He's got leaves in his hair and shards of bark on his clothes.

"What do you want?"

"We need to talk to you about the gay thing," Neville starts, cutting himself off when Seamus crosses his arms. Maybe Dean should be the one leading this conversation. They've been best friends for seven years: he must have more tact than him.

"Stop being a fucking idiot, Seamus." Okay, so tact isn't exactly the right word for it. "Nobody gives two shits you're gay. You like cock, deal with it."

"Sod off, Dean! And you, forcing yourself on me, like a—"

"I did not!" A grope was nowhere near forcing, Neville wasn't that kind of person.

"Look, we knew you wouldn't listen to me because you think I'm just trying to make you feel better. And you won't listen to him because-"

"Because I'm not sure how much you actually like me—" Neville interjects.

"So we brought the wisest thing we could think of. It'll tell you the truth." Dean gestures to Neville, who slides his bag off and opens it. Aside from the empty bottles for any augimenti spell, the only thing Neville has is the Sorting Hat. He takes it out and brandishes it at Seamus.

"I can't believe you stole it!"

"Shut up and put it on your head." Dean says irritably.

"I don't need to be sorted, Dean. Not unless there's a gay house and a straight house, and we know where I'd end up anyway. I'm not about to wear a pink house badge with unicorns on it."

"The Sorting Hat is just about the most honest thing in the world. It's not like we could drag a centaur out here to tell you you're a fucking moron. So put it on your bleeding head already!"

There's no wobbly stool to sit on, so Seamus leans against the tree before plunking it on his head. Much like every start of the year, Neville stands back and watches the pointed cloth read a person's mind and tell them where they're best suited. He doesn't know what the item tells Seamus, but it must be something positive, because when he finally hands the hat back to Neville ten minutes later, he's smiling. He crosses his arms and tucks his hands into his armpits, but he's giving a small smile.

"So, nobody gives a shit, then."

"Well, I dunno. I'm pretty happy about it." Dean smiles at Seamus, full of innuendo, and Seamus beams back.

"And I was quite thrilled the other night," Neville adds.

"Alright, aside from you two, and my mother, no one will give a shit. Those are pretty good odds, if I do say so myself."

Dean agrees before suggesting Seamus finds the nearest whiskey stash. The blond smirks and shimmies up the tree like vertical is just another way of moving, just as common as horizontal. Neville settles in the shade of one of the trees and looks forward to a warm afternoon of getting pissed. After all, he's not Harry Potter. Harry would need to return Seamus immediately, tally him off a never-ending list of missions to complete. Neville's only got the one, and he can afford to celebrate its completion.

6   
As far as seduction go, this one was nonexistent. Neville's rewriting his shoddily taken Herbology notes – he'd gotten distracted by an idea for a hybrid and his own plausibility notes are interspaced among the quotes of Sprout’s – and Seamus kicks his leg. When he looks up, Dean is perched on the arm of the chair beside Seamus, and they're both looking at him.

"You want to come upstairs?" Neville can't think of a reason to say no.

So, parchment left scattered over the wide table, he follows behind his mates. Seamus has the lead, taking the stairs two at a time in his hurry. Dean is next, also taking the stairs double. Neville climbs normally, thinking it vaguely unfair that Dean has such ridiculously long legs that two stairs are like one for the average person, and that Seamus has the energy of a Billywig on muggle speed. They wait for him at the top of the stairwell, and Dean is the one to open the door to their room.

As the door closes, they both start stripping. Once again, Neville is a beat behind them, watching and trying to figure out what they're doing, before he gives in and starts unbuttoning his shirt. It doesn't really matter _why_ they're doing this; if they want to have one last time with him and they're both okay with it Neville's not exactly going to refuse the situation. He is a teenager, and sex is sex, really.

Seamus sprawls on his bed, sheets tightly tucked under the mattress by Winky or Yelly or whichever house-elf was responsible. His cock is jutting out from his body, hard and proud. It's seriously amazing how much difference four days can make.

Neville is two steps away from Seamus when he gets an idea and goes back to his pile of clothes. He grabs his tie and jostles Dean on the bed in order to reach the blond. Skilled at tying knots, Neville is not, but it's not hard to wrap the silky fabric around Seamus' wrists and tie a knot, and then use the ends to tie a second around the headboard.

"The first time, you didn't want me to touch you. Now you can't stop us." Neville isn't imagining how Seamus' hips cant up at the statement, he knows because Dean uses his massive hand to shove him back against the bed.

"You heard Nev. Under our mercy, you are." Seamus' eyelashes flutter and Neville can only think of how much more fun this will be. With more surface area and more space to play and most importantly, more enthusiastic partners, it's going to be the best time he's ever had.

Dean's got a hand on Seamus' cock. Not stroking, just holding. Seamus is trying to rock up and create his own rhythm, but Dean's holding him down. Neville considers the teasing and decides he likes it. He reaches down to the pile of clothing that's right beside the bed – judging by the ink stains, it's probably Seamus' – and pulls out a second tie. He wraps most of the length around his hand until only a five inch strip is hanging. He slowly drags it over the smooth skin of Seamus' stomach and watches as the smaller man begins to shiver.

"Fucking bloody wankers, the both of you," Seamus tries to snap. It fails, there's no bite in his tone.

"You should snog him," Dean offers. Neville takes the hint and crawls on top of the blond, intent on licking the curses out of his mouth. He vaguely hears an accio, but then his cock brushes against Seamus' belly and his attention is elsewhere.

The next thing he knows, warm, slick fingers are playing with his arse crack. Neville freezes. This wasn't in his mental line up of possible activities, it isn't the sort of thing he'd ever consider himself doing. Barely bisexual boys top only. Don't they?

It would make sense for Neville to shy away, to refuse. But Dean's long, wet fingers don't exactly feel bad, just strange. Neville turns his head to look at Dean. He's got a small hopeful smile on his face, and Neville feels like a prat for being so hesitant when Dean seemed to jump in so easily on Saturday. But it's different. Dean's known for year what he likes, Neville's only just figured out this is another possibility.

In the end, it's Seamus that decides him. Tied to the bed, the second he quirks that smile he's the one in control, he's just got that sort of personality. And between his solid white teeth pops out the phrase that wins Neville over. "You only live once..."

Neville doesn't even know how he knew. He's straddling Seamus, his large body entirely covering the blond's. From their positioning, Seamus shouldn't be able to see what Dean is doing by his arse. But they're words that shoot to the core of him; words that attack every fibre of him _what happened to Mum and Dad could happen to you, so live every day like it'll be the last one you remember_. It's better to try this, and know it's not for him, than to refuse and question his decision every time he goes for a wank and sees Seamus instead of Hannah sucking his cock.

He arches backwards, pushing towards Dean's hand. The fingers deftly move so they're not affected by the movement, still stroking slowly up his crack. Dean's teasing him like he's teasing Seamus, and it’s both maddening and sexy as hell.

"Would you do something already?" he bursts out finally. Rubbing against Seamus just isn't going to cut it.

"Oh yeah?" Seamus chuckles. "Not much for Dean's mercy now that it's for you, are you?"

Neville laughs, and is suddenly struck with how great laughing mid-shag is. No one in porn mags ever laughs, they make sex seem passionate and rough and needy, and it's all of those things, Neville knows, but apparently it can be fun too. Neville likes that it's fun. If it's fun, it doesn't really matter what happens to whom.

7   
Neville's not really one for obsessing over things. Maybe about getting revenge for his parents, as his shining moment in the Department of Mysteries didn't go as well as he had daydreamt it would since childhood. Possibly about where he'll find a good Herbology job after graduation, though that's more cataloguing his options than true obsession.

But sex isn't something that Neville obsesses about. He likes sex, and has a healthy drive for his age, and doesn't worry about taboos gits have placed upon the action. He doesn't consider himself slutty, but if he wants it, he'll have it. At some point sex is just something you do, regardless of other people's ideas about it.

So in the aftermath of his threesome, he doesn't think about it much. He had a good time with Dean and Seamus, and it's over now and that's the end of it.

It's strange how none of the other Gryffindors really seem to have noticed the new relationship in the common room. On one hand, it's not like they're groping and blowing each other in front of the firsties. But Neville can see a dozen little things they didn't used to do. Seamus massages Dean's hand after he's been sketching for hours, instead of Dean shaking out the cramps. They sit beside each other on any free couch, instead of facing each other in armchairs. And in the four days since the threesome, Dean's worn Seamus' tie twice. Somebody _should_ notice things like that.

Still, it's not his place to out them. He only wanted them to both be honest about what they want, and they've obviously done that. They curl into each other instead of doing homework, and Neville is happy for them. They've clearly found their 'right one', and Neville wishes them all the luck in the world. As his parents know quite well, it's possible to have the right one and still have your life go to hell.

Charms is back to normal. Ron's notebook is covered in two different types of writing, though from where Neville's sitting he can't read his and Harry's conversation. Seamus and Dean are talking, and the Ravenclaws scowl every time anyone laughs. Neville's glad, he really doesn't like tension.

There's only one strange thing about the class. As far as Neville can tell, Flitwick is hung over. That, or monumentally stoned, because their assignment is both strange and utterly slack. They're supposed to take a handful of cutlery and crockery, mismatched and obviously scavenged from the nearest rubbish bin, and charm them to look like a matching set. It's art as much as it is magic, designing the pattern for the china. Flitwick isn't even watching them, his head is resting on his desk, and his eyes are closed. Regardless, most of the double class is taking the task seriously. Hermione takes everything seriously, Dean is getting a kick out of the design aspect, and the rest just want a good grade.

Neville struggles a bit. Every time he goes to plaster on orange swirls, or a classic blue toile, all he gets is tiny pink flowers. He's got bad associations with tiny pink flowers; those are the dishes Uncle Algie and Aunt Helga have, and every dinner he ever attended at their home involved Uncle Algie putting him in harms way trying to get him to show his magical ability. Even once he got his Hogwarts letter, even in third year, Algie insisted he didn't know enough spells, and thought all Neville needed was a good mind-numbingly terrifying demonstration for the knowledge to kick in. Every time he sees the pink flowers he has more trouble thinking of a new design, he just wants _not pink, not pink, not pink_ and of course the more he visualises the horrid pink flowers, the more prominent they are on his china.

The evil spiral gets interrupted by Seamus who appears to have been working at some kind of extra credit by transfiguring his own drinking glasses to complete the dinner set. It's failed horribly, his loudly cast Augimenti spell shoots right through the glass onto the back of Neville's chair, and drips down to the space between back and seat to soak into his trousers.

"Oh, sorry," Seamus says, only after Neville turns around to glare at him.

His drying spell isn't the best he's ever cast, and his lower half still feels uncomfortably damp at lunch time. But asking Hermione to help him cast a stronger spell isn't an option; there's a fifty percent chance she'll berate him to learn more spells before N.E.W.Ts, fifty percent chance she'll refuse to do it because of the first point and the one-hundred percent chance anyone that overhears will laugh. So he sits and suffers, but with his pride fully intact.

During lunch, conversation turns to Quidditch. Neville twitches when Seamus' and Ron's enthusiastic debate about the Cannons (lack of) chance in the next game, punctuated by waving spoons, pauses when Seamus' potato goes flying. Seamus apologises again and attempts to clean Neville's thigh with a quickly transfigured napkin that just rubs the food in. Neville waves him off and notes his cleaning charm isn't exactly up to snuff either. Not that he's surprised. He's only taking a Charms N.E.W.T because he needs it for most Ministry connected Herbology jobs, and there's no sense in closing doors too soon.

He's willing to consider the water an accident, the potato a logical conclusion to Gryffindors arguing over food. But when Dean over sprinkles his Lemon Bittermint shrub in Herbology and gets Neville's stomach and groin with the carefully heated water, it's nothing but intentional. He doesn't know what the hell they're doing, unless they've decided to become the next Weasley twins, only distinctly more annoying, but he doesn't like it.

When, at dinner, Seamus gets him again with a pitcher of pumpkin juice, Neville just about loses it. Instead he takes a few deep breaths, tells himself he'll talk to them once the conversation won't end up in bruised eyes for all – because there's no question that even if he gets to swing at them both before they react, neither will refrain from punching back – and attempts to dry his trousers. The spell leaves them stiff as cardboard, and when he shifts the fabric is plastered against his legs with the sticky residue.

"Would you just go to the fucking loo already?" Seamus shouts at him.

"Christ." Dean mutters.

Neville doesn't understand, and his temper raises at them being angry, when he's the one in the right. "What?"

"Go to the bloody loo, so we can talk."

"Or what, you'll spill something else on me?" he says mockingly. His tone takes the edge off inner irritation of the fact that he actually is doing what they've requested, tossing his fork onto his plate and standing.

It's a short trip to the nearest bathroom. Dean magically locks the door, though it's a bit pointless. He learned Alohomora his first year, nearly every student at Hogwarts should know it.

"What the hell was all that about?"

"We wanted to talk to you privately, so we needed to get you out of class."

"You ruined my trousers because you needed to talk? Couldn't you just have asked to talk to me?" Really, what a shit excuse.

"They're not ruined. A house-elf will fix them, guaranteed."

"That's really not the point." Neville snaps.

"No, the point is you've been ignoring us since our first time, and Seamus and I were wondering how the hell we're supposed to have a relationship when our boyfriend isn't talking to us."

Neville squeezes his eyes tight and opens them again, but Dean hasn't burst into laughter, and Seamus is actually nodding in agreement. Still, he can't help asking "What the hell are you talking about?"

"Didn't Wednesday make the point that we're dating? Seamus and I aren't the kind of boy that just has random threesomes."

Neville refrains from pointing out that until a week ago they were both the kind of boy that didn't have sex at all. That conversation will only devolve until everyone's shouting, and _somebody_ has to be the sane one in this conversation. So he asks the obvious. "Why the hell didn't you just tell me you didn't want it to be a one time thing?"

"Because we thought actions would speak louder than words, you git. We thought you'd wake us up with a snog and everything would be set." Numbly, all Neville can think is that even if they had been dating from that point then waking someone up with a snog will never, ever happen. He's not that sort of person in the morning. "Instead you ignore us, even when we're making it obvious we're shagging and would you please come join us."

"So then the plan reduced to attack you in a loo. Only you wouldn't go to the bloody loo." Dean looks cross, but hopeful. It was a strange combination.

This should be the sort of thing Neville spends time thinking about. Things will be difficult if anyone finds out about this, never mind their parents. Neville isn't sure who would be more upset, Gran or Seamus' mum, but either way hell will be brought down about them. A normal person would spend time thinking of pros and cons. Instead, Neville calls on his Gryffindor core and says "Well, I'm in the loo now. So..."

Moments after he speaks, Seamus is against him. His body is arched up, neck strained to reach Neville's lips. Neville bends down a bit and thinks they should do most of their kissing in bed, to make up for the height differences between the three. Still, it's not awkward enough to even think of stopping. Not when Seamus has both his hands curved around his arse, and Neville can feel a third working its way between their groins.

As soon as Seamus' trousers drop, Neville's hand curls around him. Dean's got his cock, and if he was able to open his eyes he's sure Seamus would have Dean in hand. There's symmetry to it, even accounting for the different rhythms and that Seamus starts bucking in near-orgasm a full minute before Neville's that excited.

It doesn't really matter that they could be walked in on. It should be a big deal, if it actually happened it would be a nightmare of epic proportions. But somehow it’s not, not compared to what Neville's lucky enough to have created. And magic makes it all the better, because as soon as Dean finishes, panting, Seamus getting half-hard a second time just watching, Neville proud of the reaction he's forcing on another, they can cast a spell that makes all the sweat and come disappear. Ten minutes after abruptly leaving dinner, they're back in the Great Hall, looking exactly the same as when they left. It's a fantastic facade, Neville thinks, considering everything's changed.

8   
There are multiple benefits to dating a fellow Gryffindor.

The first is Gryffindors don't much care about the rules. Luna never felt comfortable skipping a class to be together, but Seamus is downright enthusiastic about the idea. He keeps calling it 'sticking it to the man', and while Neville thinks it's ridiculous, he doesn't exactly want to mock Seamus about it, for fear of being denied sex. Dean is more neutral about missing class, but neutral is close enough when Seamus can talk anyone into anything.

Most professors don't approve of a student not showing up, of course. But serving a detention as a consequence of having shatteringly good sex is alright with all of them. As long as Neville doesn't miss Herbology – not because Sprout would give him a detention, she's well aware of his vast knowledge and that he's studying far beyond N.E.W.Ts concepts and missing one class won't matter, but because he would feel genuinely bad without a day with his hands in soil –everything's fine.

Another benefit is the sheer amount of sex they have. It might be a stereotype, but from what Neville's learned from the sex lives of fellow students, Ravenclaws have sex to procreate, Slytherins have sex because it can get them something they want, and Hufflepuffs do it so their friendships are maintained. Gryffindors have sex because it's fun.

Maybe it's because they're teenagers, but given the options of five hours of sleep with snogging and foreplay and sex, and eight hours of sleep, Neville will choose tired the next morning every time. It's far better to have dark circles under your eyes and a carefully concealed black love-bite on your neck than to feel well rested. Of course, sex isn't always near-silently when Harry and Ron are asleep. Sometimes Seamus teases Dean with a foot to his cock under the table at lunch and they run off to the loo. Or they see Hermione's suckered Ron and Harry into doing homework, and they've got a free period to have a quickie. Regardless of the time, Neville finds himself getting off once or twice a day, each day.

In the end it’s need and disregard for rules combined that shoves them out of the closet. In the hallway walking towards Transfigurations, Seamus grinned and then whispered in Neville's ear that Dean was hard. Neville hadn't known why, besides the random erections all males occasionally had, but the 'why' of it didn't really matter. Neville had stopped, done an about face, and started walking back towards the dorm. Of course, they had followed.

He's balls deep in Seamus, the blond's mouth full of Dean's cock, when the most devastating sound ever rings out. The dorm door is opening, creaking like an evil crone. There's the slimmest of possibilities Neville could save himself, pull out of Seamus and dress himself magically, as Dean does the same. It still won't explain Seamus being naked and stretched out on the bed, or why Seamus' wand is across the room, tossed in a fit when the worn wood would only make odd, plum lubricant – but it is enough to save himself and Dean. But Neville knows Seamus rarely bottoms because he can't stand the feeling of being pulled out of, and by now they know to only do it when Seamus is coming, so he doesn't really notice. By the time Neville decides he'd rather Seamus be uncomfortable than found out, it's too late.

"Holy shit," Ron says. His eyes are as wide as saucers, and for a moment Neville thinks of casting an Obliviate. Unfortunately, that spell can do a lot of damage if one casts it incorrectly, and the jumble of emotions Neville's got now means he'll inevitably cast it too strongly and wipe Ron's mind completely. That choice gone, Neville has no idea how to deal with this. Seamus has stiffened underneath him, and clearly isn't going to move or say a thing.

Dean though, he's got a calm air about him that neither of them can manage. Neville's seen it before, in past years and two months ago when he thought Seamus was gone forever. Dean can, unlike them, persevere through his worries, and this time he stands and bends to quickly slip on the nearest pair of trousers. When he pulls them up and zips them it's obvious they're Neville's and two sizes too big, they fall straight back down to the floor. Neville knows that had it been him that would have been the last straw, but Dean just steps out of them and walks towards Ron.

Neville realises they're screwed when Dean puts a hand on Ron's shoulder and the redhead flinches. Frankly, it's disappointing, Neville had been sure in his belief that most Gryffindors would be fine with the homosexual thing.

"Look. We're a bit busy, so if you'd stand outside until we could get our clothes sorted out and dressed, that'd be great."

"You're in seventh year and you can't accio something?" Ron asks with a snort. At Dean's 'er', Ron laughs out loud. "It's not like I haven't seen all three of you starkers. Was just a bit surprised to see it together, you know. But since your hand is sticky, I can feel the lube sticking to my shirt, you mind not touching me until you finish up?"

"I think I can manage that," Dean replies, removing his hand.

"Or rather, after classes," Ron blathers on, seemingly not noticing Dean's already done what he asked "because I'm just here to grab my textbook and run back to class. McGonagall is _not_ happy about me not having it. I can share Harry's, I said, and she nearly hissed at me, I swear. I fear the detention she'll decide you all deserve."

Okay, maybe not so screwed then. If all Ron wants from them is to not touch him when they're sticky with lube, which truly is a reasonable request, then Neville considers it a good deal.

"Ron, mate... Don't tell Harry, would you? I don't think we're quite ready for that." Dean glances back at the bed as he says it. Neville knows he's talking about Seamus, not him, but is still grateful for his boyfriend saying it.

"Right, sure. Though from what I see, you don't have anything to hide. Unless one of you is secretly a Death Eater because fucking a Death Eater's not on." Neville manages a weak chuckle, though Seamus doesn't react beneath him.

Ron's got his textbook in hand and is nearly out the door when he turns back. "If you ever want Harry and me to piss off, just tell me. Everyone needs an hour now and again, right?"

Dean thanks him, and he leaves. It only takes a few wet snogs for everyone to be convinced the mood isn't dead just because they were paused for a moment. In the back of his head, Neville decides that if Ron was that easy, maybe they should let the news out fully.

In the end, it was far easier to come out as a trio than Neville had expected. Of course, it hadn't been a choice. But then, maybe that's a good thing. Maybe it was fate that made him not wash his socks and it’s fate now saying you've got to tell everyone. Now their relationship will be more real, and they can all wear each other's socks. It's as happy an ending as Neville can think of.


End file.
